


Round Peg Square Hole

by biocomp



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Neckport, Throat Fucking, Trans Character, i guess everyone has a first time for throat fucking huh, robot sex shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biocomp/pseuds/biocomp
Summary: Hank finds the port in Connor’s neck completely on accident.





	Round Peg Square Hole

**Author's Note:**

> !!! Connor has a vagina and uses terms like cock for his clitoris. Please read at your discretion. !!!!
> 
> This has been sitting in my google docs for like three months. I was possessed tonight. I don’t know what happened. Unbeta’d. I don’t even know.

They hadn’t talked about it, at first. About their feelings.

Hank had held Connor for what felt like ages next to the Chicken Feed, his hand cradling the back of Connor’s head, the tips of his fingers growing red and numb in the chill. They’d separated, standing closer than friends probably ought to, looking into each other’s faces with an exhausted, relieved sort of calm. 

“You have anywhere to be?” Hank had asked.

Connor shook his head, his smile growing wistful. “No.”

“Yeah, you do.” Hank’s arm landed heavy around his shoulders and towed him towards the car. Connor’s smile had stretched to reveal the white of his teeth, his head ducked to hide it from Hank.

That had been three months ago.

Now, Connor comes home soaked with rain to see Hank settled on the couch, watching a movie Connor doesn’t recognize. The effects date it well back before 2030, Connor thinks as he leans down to take off his shoes. He shakes out his coat and hangs it on the hook next to the door. He could scan the actors on screen, analyze the soundtrack, but that leaves nothing for him to ask Hank about, and Hank can always tell if he’s already looked everything up. 

Hank glances back at him, the rim of a beer bottle denting the crest of his bottom lip. “How’s things?” His voice is gruffer than usual from lack of use.

“Things are good,” Connor says, offering him a small smile. “How are things with you, Hank?”

Hank looks back towards the TV and grunts. “Fine.”

Sumo lifts his head when Connor passes his dog bed and he leans down to rub at the base of his ears, under his collar, earning himself a deep, pleased sigh. The dog’s head plunks down on the floor again when Connor stands to pad down the hall to the bedroom. He’s not tired, he never gets tired, but Connor has to admit something soft and content settles inside him when he returns to Hank’s house. No, their house.

They hadn’t talked about their feelings back then, but they had about a month later.

Hank had noticed Connor looking at him, the way he did it, like he was a riddle Connor couldn’t solve. A paradox. They were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, Hank’s hands fists on the scratched surface, Connor’s nervously spinning his coin beneath it. 

“What am I to you?” Hank had murmured, unsure. Anxious. He tried to hide it behind a grim facade, but Connor knew him. 

“A lot of things,” Connor had said, his voice soft. “You’re my partner on the force,” that made Hank’s brow furrow a fraction of an inch. “You’re the person I live with. You’re my friend.” He’d meant for a hard stop, but his tone betrayed him. Faulty wiring. Faulty programming. Another And hung off the end of it, clinging for dear life. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

Hank had noticed it too, his brow twitching back up. His breath caught sliding in his throat, dragging its way into his chest. Connor stopped flipping his coin. 

“Is that all?” Hank had grumbled.

“What about you?” Connor had asked, trying not to sound hopeful as he traced his thumb over Washington’s face. 1994. 

“Same, I guess.” Hank’s hand slapped onto the back of his own neck and he rubbed it, looking hard at the surface of the table. The thumbnail of his other hand traced the groove of a scratch in the wood. The same And hung to him, too. A pair of cowardly Ands.

“I suppose,” Connor started, holding Hank’s gaze as it jerked back up to his, “that I may feel something… more.”

“More,” Hank probed.

“I find myself thinking about you as more,” Connor murmured, fist clenching around his coin. “More than a colleague, more than a friend.”

“You don’t have a word for it in your huge fuckin’ vocabulary?” The words were forced out, a clipped laugh along with them.

“Of course I do.” Connor swallowed nothing. “I’m just…” He switched his coin to his other hand, tracing the ridged rim of it with his finger. He glanced down. Up. “I’m scared to say it.”

Hank looked at him with an expression Connor couldn’t read. Or wouldn’t. He said nothing.

“I believe…” He said, his voice softer than Hank had ever heard it before. “I’m in love with you, Hank.”

And everything had changed.

Connor removes his stiff, pressed clothes and replaces them with one of Hank’s large t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants Hank bought for him that are a size too big. They hang off his hips under the hem of his shirt, and he likes the feeling of it. It’s comfortable, he thinks, and the breeze that sometimes drifts onto his skin beneath the draping fabric makes his sensors tingle. 

He returns to the living room, pausing behind the couch to sink his fingers into Hank’s hair, rubbing his nails against his scalp. Hank sighs and melts further into the couch, a groan rumbling through his chest. Connor smiles, watches, and Hank reaches up to rub gently at his forearm.

“Sit with me.” Hank says, voice low. Connor hums, scratches at Hank’s beard, and Hank tilts his head back, letting Connor scratch under his chin. “C’mon, kid.”

“Can I kiss you?” Connor asks, quietly, and Hank grumbles his approval. He leans down, slowly, cupping Hank’s jaw before pressing his mouth against Hank’s. It’s soft, slow, just past the edge of chaste, and he can feel his shoulders relaxing at the warm contact. Hank’s mouth is always warm, warmer than his own, and he fights off a shudder as he thinks about the wet heat hidden behind the smooth curve of his lips.

Hank’s hands press suddenly to his head, turning it so he can smash his mouth against Connor’s cheek, pursing his lips and blowing loudly and wetly against the surface of it. Connor laughs and drags his fingers through the hair on Hank’s jaw, tugging him away. “You ruined it!”

Hank’s smile is crooked, his eyes glinting as he looks up into Connor’s face. “That’s what I do.”

Connor scoffs, kissing him one last time before making his way around the couch and settling onto the cushions. Hank lets him take his time, lets Connor lean against him at his own pace. It still takes him a while for Connor to properly relax, but he is getting better. He was not programmed for leisure, and though he’s deviant, his coding is the foundation of himself. It takes a while to build something livable on top of that base. He settles his head against Hank’s shoulder, lets a hand crawl across Hank’s stomach. Hank’s arm hinges over the couch and he strokes Connor’s hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

The movie is about vampires, Connor discovers. Vampires and a half vampire hunting them. The half vampire wears a lot of leather and sunglasses, and Hank chuckles when Connor points out the inefficiency of someone wearing sunglasses after dark. 

“He can see just fine, ‘cause he’s half.”

“Are vampires immune to tinted lenses?” Connor’s mouth curves down in a confused little pout. There is nothing in the lore he digs up online about vampires wearing sunglasses.

“Let Blade be, Con.” Hank strokes his hair, his rough fingertips rubbing at the skin on Connor’s neck. Connor struggles to keep his eyes open, turning up the sensitivity of his sensors there. Hank’s fingertips dip beneath the collar of his shirt and Connor loses the battle, letting his eyelids slide closed.

They haven’t done much physically since they talked, Hank having grandiose ideas of taking the whole thing slow, letting Connor learn about all this at his own pace. The pace has indeed been slow, and any touch beneath clothes leaves Connor’s body tingling. He wants more, he wants Hank to touch him everywhere, but he’s scared to bring it up, scared to destroy this fragile, comfortable thing they’ve built. He’s not entirely sure Hank wants him as much as Connor wants Hank. He really, really wants him, but he’ll wait. He’ll wait until Hank is ready.

Hank’s nails scratch up Connor’s pseudodermal layer gently and he sighs, the hand on Hank’s belly gripping the fabric for a brief moment. Connor rubs his cheek against Hank’s shoulder, tipping his head up to nose at Hank’s neck. Hank chuckles, tickled, and Connor smiles, biting his bottom lip. Hank’s thumb continues its path over Connor’s neck as he settles back down. The motion is slow, dragging, so warm and consistent. Human contact is unlike anything else he’s experienced in his short but productive life. It’s not like interfacing, it’s not like touching something warmed by the sun, it’s not like petting Sumo. It’s got its own sort of sweet burn, its own tingle, and Hank is so large and soft, his hands so distinctly his own, that Connor wishes he could feel this forever.

Hank’s fingertips drift over his cheek and Connor’s jaw drops open slightly, his eyelids fluttering. The touch is light and searching, and Connor wishes those fingers would drift lower, into his mouth. They retreat back to his neck, to safer territory, and Connor sighs, a small, petty, unnecessary thing, and stretches his arm further over Hank’s stomach to dangle off the side. He’ll take what he can get, he decides, and lets his head drop low so Hank can chastely rub at his neck all he likes.

And that’s exactly what he does.

So Connor focuses on that point of contact, diverting power from secondary systems to remove distractions. He keeps his simulated breathing, because he knows Hank likes it, but he minimizes his motor functions and disconnects from the network. No internal chatter now. Just him, and Hank, and the strange man Hank had called Blade on the television. His neck feels like it’s got double the sensors on it, now, and Connor exhales heavily as Hank drags his palm over the surface of it, from his nape to just below the edge of his shirt.

Hank makes a noise and Connor assumes it’s got something to do with the movie. He’s too distracted by the sensations to think much beyond that, so he doesn’t notice at first when Hank’s fingertips start tracing very familiar patterns. Over and over, the same paths, a square in the center of his neck, a branching path to the right, to the left, up and down. Repeat. Connor’s eyes open slowly when he realizes it’s the shapes of his chassis, that his fake skin has peeled away without his permission to grant Hank better access. He lets out a shuddering breath, biting down around the tail of it. Hank’s fingers pause. Connor is terrified he’s gone too far, that his reaction is too telling.

The next thing he’s aware of is Hank’s nails scratching over the polymer of his synthetic flesh, dipping into the grooves of it. Connor exhales again, biting his lips closed as he does it. The hand hanging over Hank’s side is clenched into a loose fist and it tightens as Hank kisses his head again, slower this time. Lingering. He wants that kiss lingering somewhere else. Hank keeps scratching, keeps feeling, and Connor holds on for dear life. He can tell he’s getting wet. He shouldn’t let it happen, but he does, because he can always take care of it later, when Hank’s asleep. He can kill his vocal modulator and do what he needs to—

Hank’s nail catches in one of the grooves and Connor hears a click, a whoosh, and is hyper aware of the pneumatic door at the center of his neck flicking open. Cold air rushes in, flooding his jacked sensors, and he grits his teeth to it. It doesn’t feel cold, but his wiring adjusts to the change in temperature, registers it, in a way that Connor can only describe as Visceral. His entire back tingles with it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Hank fumbles, his fingertip catching on the corner of the door. “I’ll close you up, I didn’t know—”

His hand slips, the plastic surface of Connor’s body slick from his sweat, and his last two fingers dip into the wiring and blue silicon of Connor’s port.

Two things happen simultaneously.

Connor’s HUD is immediately filled with warnings. 

**FOREIGN ENTITY DETECTED.   
***REMOVE IMMEDIATELY.  
****ORGANIC MATERIAL DETECTED IN SECTOR 3442A  
*****SECTOR NOT OPTIMAL FOR SAMPLE ANALYSIS

A sound pushes out of him, a moan layered with static that fractures at the end. It rattles his chassis and makes his fingers clench around nothing.

Hank yanks his hand away and Connor tenses, freezes completely.

*FOREIGN ENTITY REMOVED.  
**ORGANIC MATTER NOT ANALYZED

They both stay perfectly still for a few moments, Hank’s chest heaving, Connor’s breathing stagnant, and then Connor sits up and slaps the back of his neck closed, Thirium pump hammering inside his chest. “I’m so sorry, Hank, I didn’t—”

“No, no, that was… I did that.”  
“I should have, /could/ have controlled—”  
“I was—”

Connor snaps his mouth shut, his hand still pressed hard to the back of his neck, and Hank falls silent, too. He blinks at Connor, his hand still floating inches above the couch, glistening with Connor’s blue blood. The sight makes Connor’s dick pulse.

“Are you okay?” Hank finally asks, voice coming out gruff.

He nods, finally letting his hand fall to his lap. He laces his fingers together, staring at them to avoid Hank’s gaze. “Yes. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“You… didn’t,” Hank says, his voice guarded. Connor struggles to keep from looking up and analyzing Hank’s expression. Hank hates when he does that. Hank’s next words make Connor grimace. “That sound…”

“I didn’t mean to,” Connor cuts in, head snapping up. He meets Hank’s eyes beneath a furrowed brow, an LED flashing between yellow and blue. “I was surprised, and my sensitivity was turned up.”

“Your what was what?” Hank shifts closer, setting his hand heavy over Connor’s laced fingers. Hank’s hands are so big, so warm, and Connor’s jaw clicks shut again.

“I turned my sensitivity up,” Connor says, voice quiet, “because I like how it feels when you touch me.”

Hank squints at him. “So. Did it feel good when…” He shifts his jaw, grinding his teeth a little. “When I touched inside your... neck.”

Connor looks down at their hands, at the curve of Hank’s knuckles, the lines of his wrists vanishing beneath Hank’s fingers. He nods, glancing back up into Hank’s face, his expression desperate. “Yes.” His voice is a breath when he speaks. “Yes, Hank. It felt very, very good.”

Hank swallows hard, clears his throat. His fingers clench around Connor’s for a second, his dirty hand reaching up to scratch at his own nape. Connor opens his mouth, closes it, and leaves it hanging open again. The Thirium will evaporate clear, after all. “Do you want me to, uh. Do it again?”

Connor tilts his head, his brow furrowing. “Do it again?”

“Jesus, Connor, you’re gonna make me say it?” Hank lifts his hand from Connor’s to rub the knot between his brows and drag his palm over his face. “Do you want me to put my fingers in your neck.” The question sounds like it’s dragged out of him by force.

Connor blinks. He cycles yellow again. “You… would?”

“Hell, kid. I’d do a lot of things if you liked ‘em.” Hank’s voice is gruff, soft, flooded with a kind of affection Connor hasn’t been privy to yet. It makes his pump stutter.

“Yes,” Connor says, lifting himself onto his knees and leaning close, his hands gripped in the fabric on Hank’s chest. “Please touch me, Hank.” Connor’s voice is quiet but hungry, his unnecessary breath catching in his throat. He presses his mouth to Hank’s greedily, tilting his head murmuring against it. “Touch me wherever you want.”

Hank kisses him back, his mouth impossibly hot, his hands on Connor’s waist. He pulls Connor into his lap, presses a palm against his lower back, cradles Connor’s head with the other. He licks into Connor’s mouth and Connor lets his lips part, lets Hank press his tongue into him. His sensors are flooded with the rush of information and he exhales hotly as his fans whir to life to compensate for the sudden rocket in CPU usage. Connor’s hands wander over Hank’s chest, his shoulders, and Hank grunts when Connor palms his pec through his shirt.

“You’re fuckin’ handsy,” Hank half-chuckles, grunting when Connor tugs at his nipple. He jerks his head back, holding Connor’s in place by his hair. “Jesus, Connor.”

Connor starts, the rush of heat cut by his earlier anxiety, by Hank’s voice from that night saying ‘We’ll take it slow.’ “I’m sorry,” Connor breathes, holding his hands up like Hank’s aimed a gun at his chest. “I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank shakes his head slightly, his thumb rubbing absently at the small of Connor’s back. “You don’t gotta apologize.” He shifts Connor’s hips closer, the warm curve of Hank’s stomach soft where Connor’s body presses against it. “You just surprised me.”

“You said you wanted to take this slow,” Connor says, his hands still frozen near his shoulders.

“Yeah, well.” Hank lets his head tilt to the side, rolling his eyes. “That was before I stuck my fingers in your fuckin’ neck.” His cheeks flush, but his mouth jerks up into a sly sort of grin that makes Connor’s pump stutter. “I think slow might be off the table.”

Connor blinks at him, his fingers curling towards his palms like wilting flowers. Hank tilts Connor’s head with the hand still clutched in Connor’s hair, and Connor’s eyes start to drift closed as Hank pulls their faces closer.

“Good,” Connor’s voice is quiet but dark, relieved, and he melts against Hank’s mouth as their lips slot together again.

He immediately presses his palms back to Hank’s chest, digging his fingertips into the flesh beneath the overly soft cotton of his shirt. He’s so warm and so pliant and Connor gropes him eagerly, the skin peeling back from his hands as he does. They’ve been playing at this for so long and he’s thought about it so many times, what it might feel like to finally achieve this intimacy, and Connor’s processors are humming with the thrill of it. His fans are already working overtime and he desperately pulls in air, panting wantonly against Hank’s mouth. Hank bites at his bottom lip and Connor pinches Hank’s nipple once more. He records the sound Hank makes, a low growl that he can feel rumble against his mouth, and tucks it into a folder he knows he’ll revisit often.

Hank pulls away from Connor’s mouth with a wet sound, his fingertips tapping softly against the curve of Connor’s neck. “Open up.” It’s phrased like a command and that alone causes a little jolt of desire up Connor’s spine, even though he knows he could refuse without consequence. He doesn’t want to refuse. He pulls the skin away from the space and lets the port open with a soft hiss, his mouth pressed sweetly against Hank’s cheek. 

“Could this... hurt you... or somethin’?” Hank’s voice is soft, concerned but not frightened.

Connor shakes his head, letting his nose rub against the stubble on Hank’s face. “No.”

“Tell me to stop if you don’t like it,” Hank says.

Connor’s about to reply but the warmth of Hank’s thick fingers press into the opening and his eyes jump open, his jaw dropping as heat vents in a sudden burst from his mouth. The same warnings pop up on his HUD and he shakily dismisses them, head dropping heavily to Hank’s shoulder as Hank strokes experimentally up the column of thirium slick, silicon-coated muscles covering his spine. The charge in Hank’s cells mingles with the one in Connor’s body in an overwhelming wave. His vocal modulator glitches out a garbled sound as Hank presses his fingers down harder into the silicon, the surprising soft give of it catching him off guard.

“You feel nice,” Hank murmurs somewhere near his ear. Connor exhales shakily in response, fingers still clamped around the fabric of Hank’s T-shirt. He’s soaking his boxer briefs, though he’s only partially aware of it beneath the sensations occurring within his port. He struggles to keep his eyes open as Hank prods and pets harder, deeper, his fingers catching delicate wires tucked near the edge of the muscles.

“Hank,” Connor finally manages, his eyes rolling back when Hank’s nails drag up the curve of his spine again. “Oh, Hank…”

Hank laughs quietly and shifts his hips, the adjustment clearing Connor’s head just enough for him to register that Hank is hard in his sweats. He can sense the heat of it through the fabric and it makes him feel… guilt. Or something akin to it. Connor feels selfish. He’s used to being the center of attention and he often likes it but this— it feels unfair. He wants Hank to feel good, too. He reaches a hand up to gently wrap around Hank’s wrist, stopping the sensations so he can speak properly. With it comes a sudden rush of external data he’d been distracted from, the slick mess in his pants, the heat building in his chassis.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Hank murmurs, brow furrowed as he looks into Connor’s face. Connor shakes his head, offering Hank a shaky smile.

“I’d like to touch you, also.”

“You are touching me.”

Connor frowns and Hank snorts, the hand still pressed against the small of Connor’s back stroking softly. “Alright, fine. How do you wanna touch me?”

“I’d like to fellate you,” Connor murmurs, watching Hank’s reaction carefully.

“Jesus Christ, Con,” Hank huffs, trying to look disgruntled. There’s blood rushing to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck and Connor can see it, see the blossoming heat despite the low light and thick shadows cast by the screen of the television. Hank glances down and then over Connor’s shoulder before gathering the will to look back into his face. “Do you have to say it like that?”

“I don’t know how else to say it,” Connor admits, his hands smoothing nervously over Hank’s chest. He reconnects to the network to do a cursory search. He tilts his head a little and looks at hank through his eyelashes. “Can I suck you off?”

Hank throws his head back against the cushions and groans. “That’s worse, somehow.”

“Would you find such an action displeasing?” Connor’s eyes don’t leave the shadowed creases of Hank’s face, analyzing nervously.

“No.” Hank’s answer is a quiet rush of air, his voice defeated. He tilts his head up enough to make cautious eye contact. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, Hank.” Connor presses a chaste kiss to his mouth, pulling back just as quickly as he’d leaned in. “I’d really, really like to.”

Hank rubs Connor’s hip under his shirt. He looks at Connor’s face, conducting his own analysis. Checking for sincerity. Making sure it’s not some sort of trick. He trusts Connor. At least, Connor trusts Hank and believes it to be as mutual as the rest of their various emotions. He finally grunts and lets his head tip forward to rest his forehead against Connor’s. “Alright.”

Connor beams and slips down between Hank’s legs, wriggling his hips a little at the wet sensation of his underwear shifting against his skin. Hank watches, one hand still perched at the edge of Connor’s open port. Color has creeped into his face, the warmth in his cheeks twisting something in Connor’s chassis. Connor switches his attention to the other major source of heat radiating from Hank’s body, ducking his chin to take in the curve of Hank’s cock beneath his sweatpants. Connor traces the contour of it with the tip of one finger, lips slightly parted and eyes wide. The size means nothing to him— he knows Hank is larger than average, but that’s not what captivates him. It’s the moment himself, the permission to touch and take and taste it. He drags the heel of his hand up over the lump and Hank’s chest rumbles in a low groan above him.

Oh. Connor Likes That.

Hank lifts his hips when Connor hooks his fingers in Hank’s waistband and tugs, slipping the hem down to Hank’s ankles. The lets his fingers drift up over the thick weave of Hank’s socks, the curls of his leg hair, and parts Hank’s knees with gentle fingers to lean between his thighs. Connor presses his palms against the vertical edge of the cushion and leans his chest against them, intent on taking in every bit of Hank’s cock. He’s been preconstructing this for so long, the sight alone makes him clench around nothing. Hank’s cock is red and thick and hot against his thigh, his pubic hair unkempt and darker than the hair on his head but peppered with silver. Connor slides a skinless fingertip from the base to the head, watching it twitch as he presses gently against the slit. Precum slides wetly against the plastic.

Hank’s jaw is squared when Connor finally looks back up into his face. “Thought you forgot about the rest of me,” he grumbles, cupping Connor’s cheek.

“Unlikely.” Connor leans into his palm, looking up at hank through his eyelashes. “Your cock is very handsome.”

Hank scoffs, his hand slipping from the curve of Connor’s jaw to drag over his own face. “Thanks, I guess.” He lets his hand fall onto the curve of his belly with a soft smack. 

Connor smiles up at him, a small but sweet thing, and ducks his head to nuzzle Hank’s thigh. “You’re welcome.” He delicately slips his fingers around Hank’s dick, stroking it slowly before pressing the flat of his tongue to the head, dragging it slowly over his analyzer. Data swims messily through his vision, glitched slightly at the edges. The experience is outweighing the substance, his processors unsure which to focus on or prioritize. Connor slips his lips around the glans and sucks greedily, his eyes fluttering shut and his hand gripped firmly around the base. Hank groans, shudders, the hand on his belly resting hesitantly against Connor’s head. 

Hank’s weight and heat are overwhelming inside Connor’s mouth, his synthetic saliva pooling at an alarming rate under his tongue. Hank is so smooth against it, the curve of the head probing pleasantly against the back of his oral cavity. Connor leans forward and lets it slip into his throat, lathing his tongue desperately over the shaft. The shape of it is so good. He never expected it to be this good.

The palm against Connor’s head presses harder, Hank’s fingers clutching at the soft strands of his hair. Connor’s modulator hums pleasantly inside his throat and Hank curses, hips jolting a fraction of an inch into the sensation. Connor hums again, letting his jaw drop and his tongue lay hot, flat, and pliant against the underside of Hank’s cock.

“Fuck, Connor.” Hank’s got sweat beading around his temples now and Connor is grateful for the heat venting from the port still open at his neck right until Hank’s fingers press back inside and his vision flickers. He’s ruthless about it, too, pressing slow and hard against the synthetic muscle and dragging down. Connor’s modulator glitches in a harsh, high pitched squeal that would shock him if he weren’t so distracted. Hank sneaks three thirium slick fingers further into the wires and muscle beneath the plastic of Connor’s neck and Connor’s eyes roll back.

He can’t focus like this. His HUD is a mess of new errors and overheating warnings, his processors are swinging between the cock in Connor’s mouth, the heat between his legs, and the hand in his neck. His priority list keeps flickering in and out of view, the order different every time. 

PLEASE HANK  
SATISFY COMPONENT VA5644.3  
ACHIEVE ORGASM  
RELEASE EXCESS HEAT

Can he make them all one? Can he smash them together? He’s too compartmentalized, separate circles he desperately wants to combine into a vendiagram. Connor’s voice glitches again as Hank’s hips buck shallowly into the curve of his throat and bumps the slope of his modulator. Two of the circles overlap in a jolt of clarity.

“Use my mouth,” Connor manages, his lips unmoving around Hank’s cock. The fingers pause in the port.

“What?” Hank pants, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and concentration.

“Fuck my mouth.” Connor says, clearer than before. His eyes are half closed but focused confidently on Hank’s. He doesn’t think he’s wanted anything half as much as he wants this. “You can’t hurt me. I want it.”

Hank chokes and grips his hair, letting his hips thrust into the wet cavern with abandon. Connor hums again, the sound fractured. His hands slip from Hank’s cock and thigh to land loosely in his lap. Hank yanks him forward, angling his head just so. The sensation of Hank’s cock pressing against the soft curves of his mouth are intoxicating, even though Connor’s not sure what it’s like to be intoxicated. It’s hard to process anything, and he shoves his hands into his own sweats, letting his eyelids slip shut as he presses his thumb hard to his own aching cock.

Connor’s boxers are completely soaked, the smooth lips of his entrance slippery with his slick. He shoves three fingers clumsily inside the biocomponent and it accommodates him easily, the pressure of the digits relieving some of the ache registering distantly in his CPU. His own hips mimic Hank’s desperate thrusts, his own wet heat amplifying the sensations in his mouth like a messy echo chamber. Hank’s fingertips suddenly dig into the naked muscle of his neck and Connor’s modulator shrieks, crackling with static.

Connor’s vision flickers, going black momentarily as Hank’s thrusts come faster and harder, the head of his cock rubbing ruthlessly against the tunnel of his throat. The modulator crackles helplessly beneath it, shorting and struggling to function. Connor’s hands are shaking in his pants. He’s so close. A distant part of him still lucid enough to maintain reasonable thought figures Hank must be, too, with the speed and rough nature of his movements.

Hank’s fingertips dig unforgivingly into Connor’s muscles and his vision returns in a flash of white, code populating the left half of his HUD as he clenches around his fingers and comes in a sudden burst, hot lubricant spilling sloppily over his fingers and palm. His jaw goes entirely slack and Hank pushes in deep, hips stuttering as he finishes into Connor’s throat. Connor distantly registers the hot liquid dripping down the lining of his components. His modulator struggles to groan.

Hank flops back against the cushions, his face dripping with sweat. There’s hair sticking to his forehead, his breath coming in desperate, shaky gulps. He releases Connor slowly, his hands flopping uselessly against the couch. Connor presses his cheek to the worn surface of the cushion between Hank’s knees, jaw hanging loosely as his fans force heat from his mouth in a desperate attempt to stave off shutdown. His fractured HUD flickers and Connor barely recognizes the MISSION COMPLETE prompt in the upper right of his vision before it vanishes. He feels the port in his neck slide shut.

“Shit. You okay?”

Hank’s voice barely registers.

“Connor, are you okay?”

Connor drags his cheek up the edge of the cushion until his chin is resting against the flat of it. He tries to say he’s wonderful, but no sound comes out. He sits up suddenly, mouth in a pout and brow furrowed. He opens his mouth to speak again, and again nothing comes out. He looks up at Hank blankly, then taps his knee twice. Hank stares back at him, dazed and not understanding.

His phone lights up on the table next to the couch and vibrates, rattling against a half-full glass of water. Hank doesn’t react.

Connor taps his knee and Hank squints. Connor points at the phone. Hank reaches for it.

Hank looks at the screen for a full forty seconds before he responds. “I did what?”

Connor fights the urge to sigh. This is ruining what should be a lovely sort of afterglow. Another text bubble pops into the chat on Hank’s phone.

CONNOR // You damaged my modulator. I can’t speak.

Hank looks from the screen to Connor. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He sets the phone on the couch beside him and drags Connor up to join him, one hand around his hip and the other against his cheek. He turns Connor’s head this way and that, as if he’ll be able to see the damage from the outside if he just gets the angle right. Connor shrugs, letting his head rest against the back of the cushions when Hank finally releases him. Hank jumps when his phone buzzes against his thigh again.

CONNOR // Don’t apologize. I enjoyed that very much.

Hank turns to press a kiss to Connor’s mouth. The phone in his hand vibrates.

CONNOR // I’ll go in for repairs tomorrow. I would like it if you would accompany me and help me explain.

**Author's Note:**

> And that’s how Hank Anderson died.


End file.
